


The Eternal Waltz

by the_haven_of_fiction



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, War Horse
Genre: Captain James Nicholls - Freeform, Drama, F/M, Romance, tom hiddleston - Freeform, war horse - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:39:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_haven_of_fiction/pseuds/the_haven_of_fiction
Summary: Imagining more about Captain Nicholls from War Horse and what might have happened after that dramatic scene.





	The Eternal Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of randomly generated prompts from a now defunct Tom Hiddleston themed writing group. The prompts are as follows: Captain Nicholls / Took me to a cottage by a lake / And we went to swim / When the night came we forgot all about the time / But then he gazed into my eyes / And said I’d treat you like a princess.   
> **I changed the narration from 1st person**

When the thundering of the canons and the ominous smell of death grew overpowering, he gave himself permission to dream.

Perhaps it wasn’t so much dreaming as it was remembering.

Sometimes they were images: a flash of glistening red lips, a cascade of light brown tresses.

Sometimes they were longer scenes that played in his mind, like reading a book.  How he wished for a longer volume, for a wealth of pages that offered him a beautiful variety of memories.

But no, no, none of that self-pity.  He knew he was more fortunate than many chaps on that score.  He had nearly nine months on which to draw; nine months of smiles, nine months of laughter, nine months of giddy walks in the village.  And of course, there was that weekend.  That weekend, when they were the only two lovers in the world.  Well, at least in the little cottage by the lake.  

That was his favorite dream, the one he saved when things became unbearable, when he saw his men die in agony.  But it wasn’t a dream.  It had been real, as real as the terrible war that now surrounded him.  

On that weekend, she had surrounded him.  He slipped the smooth gold onto her finger, past the buffed elegant nail, over the delicate knuckles, and she was his.  Only his.  

He loved her hands. He loved to watch them poised over the piano, the slender fingers curved in exquisite perfection.  

He remembered how they played over his body with the same featherlike touch as when she sat at the black and white keys and played the Chopin that they both loved so much.  She adored the melancholy of the nocturnes, he the liveliness of the waltzes.  How often had he sat in contented silence and watched her as she taught the village children. He saw in most of them the same adoration that he felt for her, saw their shining flushed faces as they sat on the bench next to her and their stubby fingers tried to curve as elegantly as hers did.  

He remembered how she had laughed and ruffled his hair, as she did for so many of those children, when he told her how much he paid for a piano to be driven to that little cottage by the lake so that they could have music on their honeymoon.  

Even when she wasn’t playing that weekend, he could hear it.  He heard the tinkling of the notes as they swam together, as she sat by the crackling fire and dried her hair, running her perfect fingers through the locks until he couldn’t bear being merely an observer any longer.  When the night came and they forgot all about the time, he still heard it; but then it was in the little gasps and sighs and urgent pleas that fell from her lips.  He was the maestro then and the melody that he composed on the perfectly tuned instrument in his arms was so sweet, he feared it might permanently steal his breath.

He remembered gazing into her eyes when they lay facing each other and the rhythm of their hearts had finally slowed.

“Thank you for the piano, James.”

One of her hands was on his cheek, the other tucked under her dimpled chin.

She giggled when he reached out and tickled the little spot behind her ear, the spot he had just discovered and already adored.

“I promised you I’d treat you like a princess, my darling girl, and I know a princess needs her music.”

The bed creaked beneath him as she sprang from it and escaped his grasp, not bothering to put on her wrapper or cover herself.  She sat down and began to play a waltz for him, looking back over her shoulder and slyly winking.

“Dance with me, wife.”

He was behind her, his big hands were gliding down her arms, his lips close to that delicious ticklish spot.

“I can’t dance and play at the same time, husband.”

“Very well,” he informed her, stepping away and bowing slightly, “You leave me with no alternative, old thing.  I shall dance on my own then.”

How she chortled as he put his arms around an imaginary figure and began to waltz around the small room in an exaggerated fashion, the silvery moonlight dancing off his smooth pale skin and the blondeness of his hair.  

Her laughter accompanied the ending of the waltz and then the piano was silent as she joined him.  

He remembered the sound as their bare feet shuffled across the floor.  He remembered the scent of her hair, the lavender haze that always seemed to be faintly clinging to her skin.  He remembered the feel of her cheek resting against his chest, his arms around her so tightly, remembered the comforting vibrations of her humming.   But it wasn’t a waltz, it was one her beloved nocturnes.

He knew immediately what she was thinking.  She was thinking that this little haven of theirs would be a memory soon and he would ride away.  Neither of them would give voice to their shared question.  Would he come riding back?

He was in the middle of reliving that memory and the waltz was playing in his mind when there was a tap on his shoulder and a telegram was placed in his hand.

The music stopped.

He couldn’t much remember the days that followed.  Routines. Drills.  The business of war.

There were no waltzes, no nocturnes.

She was gone, stolen from him by the music she loved so much.  One of the poorer village children that she had taken as a student even though her parents could barely afford to feed her had given his princess a fever that took them both.

No music.

He didn’t know how long it had been, how many risings and settings of the sun since that message had been delivered to him. It didn’t matter now.  It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t come riding back.  

When he found himself atop Joey, charging at full speed on that day, it finally returned.  The rumbling of hooves faded and the sweetness of the notes rained softly around him.  

A waltz.

He closed his eyes in relief, blocking out the sunlight and the sight of the enemy before him.

A whiff of lavender.

And then.

Then.

Then her beautiful hands were reaching for him, lifting him, saving him.

Then he heard her laugh.

Then the music grew louder.

Then his arms were around her.

Then he was dancing with her again.

But he couldn’t feel his feet beneath him.

Then he heard her speak, felt her lovely fingers cup his cheeks.

“This is the last dance, my prince.  And it will never end.”

 


End file.
